


Pressure Valve

by goldenrod



Category: Castle
Genre: F/M, Porn Battle, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-10
Updated: 2012-02-10
Packaged: 2017-10-30 21:41:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 723
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/336468
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/goldenrod/pseuds/goldenrod
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Kate Beckett is not a screamer, no matter what Richard Castle thinks.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pressure Valve

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Porn Battle XIII (Prompts: pressure, control).
> 
> Feedback welcome, constructive criticism gratefully received. Enjoy!

 

When it comes to sex, Kate Beckett is not a screamer. Never has been. No matter how much the pressure builds (no matter how much it’s building right now), she somehow manages to keep the lid on. Maybe she’s just naturally quiet, maybe she just hasn’t met the right guy, or maybe, as more than a few men who were technically boyfriends have informed her, she’s just a control freak who can't let herself let go.

This does not stop Richard Castle from trying his hardest to change this fact, however. He believes he can, and she indulges him in this belief, because really, the male ego needs all the duct-tape to hold it together it can get. 

Besides which, if it means more of what he’s doing right now, she’s hardly going to complain about his fool’s quest.

He looks down, right into her eyes, his weight pressing her further into his mattress, and she looks right back up at him as they engage, her arms wrapped tightly around his back, both moving in perfect sync with each other, and neither one willing to back down or break first. Which is as it should be; if he was to give up too easily, it wouldn’t be any fun.

He breaks eye contact, but not the rhythm they’ve found, leaning to whisper in her ear (and he  _knows_  that’s cheating, knows what that does to her), his voice rough.

“Ready to scream, yet?”

“You wish,” she mumbles. Words are not coming easy to her right now.

“Come on, Kate. Scream for me.”

“Never.”

“There’s no shame in admitting defeat.”

"Castle."

She grabs his chin, looks right back into his eyes. 

“Stop talking,” she breathes. She can’t finish the sentence --  _and fuck me_  -- but tries to communicate through her eyes, her breathing, her face just how close she is.

He gets the message, and smirks. “Yes, ma’am.”

He leans down, kisses her, hungrily. His hand slides down her side, resting on her hip, and he begins to thrust into her again, slowly but with force, and she can’t help it, a choked, tiny gasp breaks out of her, a tiny crack in the lid venting the pressure that is building within her, threatening to blow. And she’s so, so close, and he knows exactly what to do to make that crack bigger, make her lose control completely.

She kind of loses track at that point -- it’s only a couple of seconds, but it feels like hours, and suddenly her eyes roll back into her head and her eyelids begin to flutter, and that’s her cue, she’s bursting, no going back now, and her body seems to stiffen and spasm at the same time as she comes, her eyes closed her mouth open in a silent scream ( _silent, ha, see Castle_  part of her brain thinks), and she feels him stiffen and hears him release a grunt that sounds like a roar. And then there’s nothing, she’s gone, and he’s gone, together, as it should be. 

When she drifts back to something like consciousness, they’ve rolled over, and she’s half snuggled into him, half draped over him, the covers arranged on top of them both. His arm is looped around her waist, pulling her in close, his hand resting on a spot vaguely where her hip meets her ass; the part of her brain that is either not still clouded with her orgasm or not falling asleep, the part of her brain that insists on control and distance at all costs, wonders whether she should be comfortable with this, or whether he is far too comfortable. That part of her brain is then told in no uncertain terms to shut the fuck up by the rest of it.

“Didn’t make me scream,” she murmurs sleepily against him. Not that it matters a bit, because he might as well have done, and he knows it, but still. Fantastic lover he may be, she is still technically the victor. The matter is settled.

He doesn’t appear too upset at losing (if, indeed, he could be said to have ‘lost’ by any meaningful sense of the term). She feels his chuckle rumble through his chest before he kisses her on the forehead.

“Next time,” he promises, as she falls asleep against him.

Kate’s looking forward to it already.


End file.
